Caged Dragon
by Jissai
Summary: Balinor escapes Camelot taking his family with him into Cenred's royal household. However, instead of protection, the royal family had other plans. What will happen when the sorcerer Emrys and Arthur meet twenty years later?
1. Chapter 1

This is another re-upload.

Warnings: violence, child-abuse,intense angst, mentions of torture, blood. Slash or not is left ambiguous and up to the reader.

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"Father tells me that you're a Dragonlord," says the young prince, his forehead sporting a large frown, too big for his small childish face. His stern eyes scan up and down your six year old body, assessing your worth. You grasp your mother's cloak tighter as you try to hide behind her, away from the intimidating gaze.

"My father's a Dragonlord," you correct him behind the woman's legs. "He says I don't get those powers till I'm older."

This did not seem to please the young prince at all, who opts to snatch you from behind your mother and throw you unceremoniously to the floor. The guards escort your mother forcibly from the room when she tried to reprimand the spoiled prince. You are left alone and unprotected. You hear her cries slowly fade, as she is escorted further down the hall.

The prince stands before you, a look of disdain, never leaving his features. He unsheathes a small knife and approaches you; the jeweled hilt glowing as the light hits it. Beautiful, you think, before your ears catch his heavy steps. Beautiful and deadly. You scoot further back as he advances, his frown growing into a malicious grin with every step**; **it grows wider and wider, until you can barely see his eyes under the distorted smile.

You gulp.

"Then... What use is there to keep you alive?" The deadly voice slices the air. You duck the attack just in time, only to realize that he's trapped you on the floor.

The boy chuckles.

Your eyes grow wide. _He'd planned this all along. Your life is a game to him!_

Your gaze follows the handsome weapon as he flicks it, holding it in the appropriate position to strike an exposed chest.

And as you watch, the blade fly down towards you, you feel your magic burn your eyes, as it pushes the prince through the air with a tremendous force. You gasp in awe as the magic leaves your body through every pore in your skin. You hear the smashing of objects as the prince's body makes impact across the room, his face once so deadly, now contorting as he cries out in pain.

You snort. Some tough prince!

"What is the meaning of this?" A booming voice rips your attention away from the crying youth and you feel terror creep within you once again.

A tall, ferocious man is standing in the room's only doorway, his royal cloak seeming to sway with his aura of power. You rub your eyes, checking again to see if it's magic. It's not though. Just your body and mind trembling with fear.

The man's gaze falls on his son's crying form before redirecting toward you. Murder is in his eyes. You forget how to move. You forget words as he marches towards you, grabbing you by your short raven locks, dragging you forward and throwing you face down on the flagstones, next to the prince. He places his boot on your head when you attempt to rise off the floor.

"You let this _peasant _defeat you?" You hear the man above you roar, hissing when he digs his boot further onto your skull.

"He has magic, Father!"

You hear a resounding slap.

"Of course he has magic, Cenred! That's the whole point of bringing the last Dragonlord here!"

You feel the weight of the man's boot lift off your head, replaced by rough, leather gloved fingers hoisting you up by your hair, indifferent to your protests.

"If you _cannot_ control the Sorcerer," you hear the voice boom near your ear, as the rough hands throw you forward, sending you crashing into the chest of the prince. "Then, he will be removed from your ownership. At which point, you will be a disgrace to your entire family and the kingdom."

The prince doesn't budge when you hit his chest, instead**,** standing unwavering in perfect poise in front of his, you guess, his father,the king. You watch blood trickle down the prince's face from the smack. You try to step away**, **but his arm holds you in place.

"Yes, Father." The voice wavers, still clutching you tightly to his chest as you try to fight your way out of the unyielding grasp.

"I have given you a profoundly important task, Cenred," the ruler says, the voice less dangerous but still just as stern. "The future of this kingdom and of defeating Camelot depends on your task."

Finally, after several grueling minutes**, **you hear the heavy footfalls as the King leaves, followed by the slamming of the two large oak doors. The prince looks down at you; watching you, studying you as you try to break free from this unwanted embrace.

You cannot tell if it's a smirk or a dissatisfied frown that mars his face when he finally speaks to you. "Father says that you should listen to me, that I have to tame you." The lips tug into a definite sinister expression as you feel his other arm reach behind your back, feeling the metal of the blade run along your spine through your thin shirt.

"Now, you are going to do as I say, Sorcerer." You cringe as he applies more pressure on the blade, slicing your skin in a thin line, "And, if you try anything funny again, he waves the dagger at you, this will go straight through your mothers heart. Got it?" Your struggles cease, your body halting in fear. You look up at the smirking face, finding nothing good there.

You gulp, swallowing the threat down; understanding it and accepting your fate.A fate no child could imagine.

His sickening smile grows as he releases his hold. It's taking all your willpower to steady your arms by your sides, cementing your feet to the ground. All you want to do is run away from this place, your mind is screaming at you to escape.

"Now," your captor begins, sauntering towards the door, "Let's go test where your loyalties lie, shall we? I'm sure there will be some unwilling servants on whom we could test your deadly magic." He demonstrates his command further by pretending to run the blade across his own throat.

You blink back tears, hushing your magic as it tries to explode around you, nodding in submission.

Finally, you follow him, leaving a part of yourself behind in that room, the click of the large doors sealing it away forever.

* * *

><p>You don't find out until well over ten years later that your father is dead. That the king of Escatia had him killed the minute he confirmed that you were the Dagonlord's son; his first born son, to be more exact. As next in line for the Dragonlord lineage...you are now a Dragonlord!<p>

You don't find out that horrible truth, till Cenred that awful man, tells you. Until, his father finally dies, handing your master the crown.

Your new King and old master smiles, as he studies your reaction to the terrible news. It brings him pleasure to cause you mental harm; to see your eyes stare blankly into space while you fully digest the information; to see the tears as it fully sinks in.

He enjoys watching you, silently mourn a father you cannot even remember, but for whom you shed silent tears nonetheless.

Then again, when hasn't he enjoyed watching you wallow in your misery?

"Does it hurt you, Merlin?"

His voice is low and controlled as always. You've known him long enough, dealt with him long enough to know, that he is anything but calm. You catch the sinister, malicious undertone to his words. It's the same ones he's used with you whenever he's wanted to see you in pain. Whenever he's wanted you to kill or torture someone for his pleasure.

_"Do you like the sounds of a little girl's screaming?" _He once asked you, the room filled with the loud, painful wails of a child. When you shook your head, he had you silence the screams. He had you kill her slowly, tearing the little girl's limbs from their sockets with your magic. Then, he'd have you repeat those lessons on the battlefield.

Through the years, you've tried to learn how to avoid the consequences of that low and controlled tone, but the former prince is more clever. He's always found a way to twist your convictions, to wet his sadistic appetite.

"Merlin…" his voice seethes, hand gripping the bottom of your chin, redirecting your gaze toward your new King. His face is very close to yours; it's suffocating you as he invades your personal space. The sinister smile never leaves his features; those uncaring eyes continuing to stare, a little too close to your own.

Despite all the years you have been with him, been his Sorcerer, you never got used to him. You still want to shrink into oblivion, or fold into the floor, where those cold eyes cannot find yours.

Your muscles jump when his hands graze the strands of your hair. You wish he wouldn't touch you like that. You wish he wasn't here at all. Your muscles tighten when one of those hands grasps and jerks a lock of your hair.

Your body and mind remember what he's done to your body over the years. The images invade your mind like a knife plunging into your heart,painful and sudden. You cannot, stop the images pushing their way into your vision.

You remember how it felt, how horrible it was when he once set your hair on fire. He let the flames burn, only long enough to frighten you, so there was no permanent damage to your scalp.

But, like all the other memories, it was the torture that came after the act that was always the worst. The cruel man was dedicated to keeping the memory fresh in your mind. Keeping the feeling of fear and lingering death untarnished and unforgotten by the forces of time.

He knew what you thought about, whenever he touched your hair; knew your thoughts whenever he pulled your head close to a lit torch;whenever he held a blade close to your throat. There were so many memories,which each part of your body recalled, in relation to this man. He enjoyed exploiting each and every one of them.

Everywhere he touched you, held a purpose, a deeper, darker purpose. Everywhere he touched you, held a memory.

He made sure to keep them alive for you, each and every day. Then, if he thought you were forgetting those days, those events, the unique fear you felt; he'd make your life a living hell, by once again torturing you in the same way.

He's trained you never to forget, never to move on. And the weight is heavy on your heart, the jagged, sharp edges of the memories piercing your soul like a thousand blades.

You try to keep calm. Keep poised. Steady your breath. Calm your heartbeat. You look into those eyes, but your mind is elsewhere. All the while those fingers go through your hair, your mind is busy pushing the memories back, but to no avail. It never works, yet you try regardless.

"Merlin…" the voice begins to seethe. You look away briefly, before your gaze shoots back into place, looking at the man, you've grown to hate, but depend on, both at the same time.

" It...it... hurts me," you stammer. He's always liked it when you stuttered; when your emotions are too hard to ignore, and your feelings and memories begin to impede your speech. When his intimidating presence cuts apart your mind and you fail to pick up the pieces properly. Maybe if you give him what he wants, what he craves, he will leave you alone this time.

Fortunately, there's a knock at the door, and you are saved for a few, precious, wonderful moments. The new ruler's steps echo across the empty throne room as he walks towards the large double doors.

"What do you want?" You hear his voice bark. He's in a bad mood again. You shudder, contemplating the long, painful evening ahead of you at the mercy of that newly emerged temper.

"It's the Prince of Camelot, he wishes to speak with you, your Majesty. He arrived only a few minutes ago." The ruler growls agitated, sending the servant scurrying off.

He sends you off as well, with a promise that this evening, you have to yourself. He will make up for it tonight.

The lurking night and dark promise once the sun dies, haunts your thoughts for the rest of the evening, festering in your mind during one of the rare moments when you should be feeling at ease. But that is to be expected, he would never allow you a few, precious moments of tranquility.

Nothing stops that man, from shattering whatever hope you have of internal peace. Nothing stops that man leaving the shards of your being, to rot and decay on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! Here is the next part. :)

Due to increased demand, I may write an extra part to " the greatest show on earth."

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The halls are quiet tonight. Nothing but the sound of your weary footsteps disrupts the dead silence. The torches in the wall sconces barely light your way as you travel through the hallways. You know you are late. Terribly, terribly late. You had waited in your small room until the last moment before finally making the journey to the dungeons.

You can only hope, he chooses not to beat you to the brink of death again. He has never been a patient man, an understanding master. He is often curious to see how far he can go with you; how far he can hold you over the cliff of life and death! He never has to be careful in what he does,for he knows that you can heal any physical wound he inflicts on you.

Your body flinches, muscles tightening, as your mind desperately tries to push back the , it is too overloaded with them, images of pain. Mental wounds, you can never permanently heal, deep, red gashes under the skin, scars too deep and complex for a healing spell to mend. A collection of those memories balances on top of your soul, waiting to tumble down.

You are almost there now, only two hallways away.

The torches grow dimmer as you progress to your destination. You dread the large, elaborate doors. You cannot fathom the fear inside you at the thought of what is behind them, waiting for you at the end of this journey.

Your puppeteer,who will hold a torch to your wooden limbs.

Luckily, the thought does not travel any further, interrupted as your ears catch the sound of someone in an office as you pass.

The door creaks slightly as you peak inside. It is too late for anyone to be in your master's office. And, it certainly wouldn't be him, he is awaiting you.

You find a blonde man, royal you surmise by his clothing, rummaging through your master's desk near the window.

"Where is it?" You hear him mumble as he checks the desk's contents. You notice how he had carefully stacked everything in its original order. So that he could put everything back together in perfect condition, making it look, as if he had never been there.

A spy!

You find yourself suppressing, gently lulling the power gathering beneath your fingertips. You should not kill the man, not yet. This person may be someone important to your master.

"Can I help you with something, Sire?"

The royal freezes for a few heartbeats, gathering his poise before he turns around. He studies you briefly, trying to read your reaction to the situation in which he finds himself. You give him none.

With a friendly smile,the other man grabs a purse from his hip, and takes out a few coins. He is planning to bribe you, bribe your master's personal manservant and secret sorcerer.

You flash a smile. What a foolish, foolish man!

"You saw nothing, do you understand, peasant?" The noble orders, flicking three coins towards you. You catch them, accepting the bait for this man's game. Usually when you catch people like him, they only give you a single coin before you hand them over to your owner. This man isn't simply trying to buy your silence, he wants information.

"How long have you worked here?" He asks. A small disturbance ripples across his façade when you flash him another smile. He's now going to ask you one of _those_famous questions, isn't he?

"A year," you lie. Repeating the same response, you had told all the other spies and nosy nobles throughout the years. Neither of the fake smiles falter as you tuck the coins into your pocket. He thinks he has reeled you in, a dumb, illiterate servant. They all do. Little does this strange man know that you have cast your hook into a well of treachery and knowledge.

"Why do you ask, my Lord?"

"King Cenred," the other youth begins. You count down the minutes until he makes his fatal mistake, shouldn't be long now. " … has he invited any groups of sorcerers here recently?"

Ah, so it _is that_question again! You win! "Not that I am aware of, Sire, I am only a servant going about his duties." He is searching for Cenred's rumored secret sorcerer.

Shall you introduce the noble to him?

You tilt your head to the side slightly, studying the other youth. Sizing him up, calculating just the right and quick way to squeeze the life out of those eyes. No, your master will be having you use him for target practice soon enough. Both of you can get reacquainted then. It has been a long time since you have felt any remorse for another adult. Children still ach your soul, but adults can be easily disposed.

The other's smile refuses to falter. He's almost as skilled as you are at this game. Interesting.

"I was never here**!**" He commands, tossing you one more coin before taking his leave. You watch the foolish figure stroll down the corridor and out of sight.

Such a foolish, foolish man, thinking he can give you orders. Your master will not be pleased regardless as to whom that strange, blonde man might be.

You hasten your step, making your way to your previous destination. Your master will be tremendously pleased with you tonight. He may even forget all about your punishment, making you play with the blonde before he has you kill him.

It has been almost a week since you have been allowed to cause someone pain. That terrible sensation is usually wrought upon your body. Seven long days, since _you_have been the master, holding someone else's life and sanity within your palms.

Where, you are the puppeteer, rather than the tool, at the mercy of those strings.

Your smile broadens along with your mood as you travel through the hallways, a renewed spring in your step.

'Yes,' you smile. 'What a foolish, ignorant man!'

* * *

><p>"The Prince wants to play a game, does he?"<p>

The light from the torch plays along the hook now held within your master's hand, gloved fingers which can be so deadly when wielding a weapon. Your skin his canvas upon which he can draw in red.

You wearily hold your position, eyes darting from the blade to his hand, and back.

_What will he do with you now? Can you leave, and sleep peacefully tonight?_

A smile broadens Cenred's lips, in anticipation your nerves shake.

"The Prince of Camelot wants to find my sorcerer, the legendary Emrys…" Cenred ponders, gliding elegantly across the floor, to a small wooden table. "...the man I have used to destroy our neighboring kingdom."

The old furniture is unkempt, blood-stained, and proudly, displaying all the horrors of your nights. A gloved finger hovers over the assortment of torture weapons.

"Poor...dear old Arthur Pendragon. I heard rumors of him being fond of peasants, but I didn't think it true…"

_Enough of Arthur, what will happen to you?_

You squirm slightly in your position, blank face never faltering. It can never falter. Your master enjoys it too much when it cracks and your emotions show. The ensuing pain is always worse.

"Shall we play his game, then, Emrys?" He smiles, something deep within you dying as he settles on a weapon of choice, a long, sharp jagged blade. You can already feel the metal tear at your skin.

As elegant as a pure king, your dark master glides towards you like death, rich black gloves grabbing your arm, and slamming you halfway on the table. Your breathing is ragged, as you choke on sobs you are trying to suppress. Regardless, your eyes shed tears.

You sense the blade nearing your arm, and shut your eyes.

"Don't scream too loudly tonight, Merlin...we have a royal guest!"

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><p>His blue eyes are wide, full of surprise even horror, before they melt into pity.<p>

_Do they not beat their servants in Camelot as well?_

You pull down the black sleeves, hiding the fresh cuts, burns, and bruises decorating your forearms. Your master had decided to only allow you to heal the most deadly damage from the previous night, allowing the rest of his festering artwork to be on display.

His mouth is agape, eyes forever wide, before he remembers himself, reasserting his princely air. His indifference doesn't matter now, such a pity. You enjoyed the compassion, so rarely received. The mask has been cracked.

"Please, Sire," you begin, repeating the words your master had insisted upon. A puppet, once more playing along, governed by its strings. "Please, take me with you! He tortures me!" The tears, you suddenly find sliding down your cheek shock you, one of your hands hesitantly wipes them away. You weren't given the order to cry, so why are tears falling?

The Prince continues to stare, finding the closed door behind you more important, mostly likely, more distracting.

You need to force his hand.

"I…" you stutter, unlacing your black shirt, "There are other wounds as well, Sire." The burns and scars are all over your chest. Memories never allowed to be forgotten hidden under your clothes, never allowing blemished skin to show.

You are not able to remove an inch of clothing before strong, golden hands stop you, grabbing your forearm firmly.

You see pity in those blue eyes again. _Pity…pity for what?_

You smile once he takes the bait. "No, that will be all right," he coughs, struggling to regain his composure. So, the rumors were true. He heeds to the call of peasants and beggars. Interesting.

You smile at his final words, informing you that you will be joining him in his return to Camelot. A smile, and a light, tiny flutter of something wonderful which you cannot recall the name of, beating in your chest.

Your master smiles upon hearing the news.

Arthur…a foolish Prince, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

Additional warnings for this chapter: Light reference to past noncon of both the het and slash nature.

That is all. Enjoy! :)

Thank you fairy goatmother and unended-tales for your reviews(and more backstory you shall have!)! I'm sorry if you cannot understand the story Su. Is it because it is written in second person?

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To take down a monster, you plant a spear in its heart, a small, sharp, precise blow to shatter its core.

That is your mission in Camelot, that and so much more.

You are woken from your thoughts by the prince's voice, he's once again wearing the distrustful, indifferent mask which you had mastered years ago. "What is your name?" The clatter of hooves from the horse you were given is loud in the silence.

"Merlin..." You quietly reply, lowering your eyes briefly, playing the part of a subservient peasant.

His face gives nothing away.

By nightfall, the silence begins to wane. A fire crackles in the pit, as the knights laugh and share stories.

"Have you ever been with a woman, Merlin?" A seemingly half-drunk knight hollers from the other side of the fire pit. You glance back blankly, mind searching for the right words.

He takes your hesitation as misunderstanding. "You know Merlin!" he stands up, making obscene gestures as he humps the air. "Have you ever bedded a woman? Made her scream your..."

_ "Stop! Please!" she is shaking, legs kicking in the air, forcing you to hold her down._

_"I'm sorry," You whisper, lifting her skirt as your master watches on-_

"No!" Your stern words send all the knights into fits of laugher, one tossing a coin to another on what you can only guess was a bet on your bedding experience.

You play Merlin the helpless, innocent, naïve boy so well.

One of them, the one with skin as dark as night, continues what should have been a long-dead conversation, "Any men then, Merlin?"

You mentally wince, suppressing the memories as they try to bubble and boil to the surface.

"No..."

A rough slap on your shoulder makes you yelp, the drunken knight smiling gleefully as he sits next to you. "Well then, we shall have to fix that! Where is the nearest whore house, Elyan?"

The rest of the conversation is a blur as you are once more ignored, the conversation drifting elsewhere, and your mind empties itself while physically, you retain the smiling, naïve look of a peasant.

Well, you are ignored until the prince returns, as you realize too late, that you had forgotten to track him. You master needs to never know of your omission.

"How are the wounds?" he asks, straight to the point. You grab onto your sleeves tighter, pulling them down to cover more skin. You had healed the wounds that morning, all of your life-long physical wounds. Something deep inside, shame perhaps, shot to the surface when you exposed your life's scars to the prince, something which you needed to remove from existence.

"They are fine," you answer quickly, careful to keep yourself covered. You scoot away as the prince sits beside you.

"They didn't look very good. Did you use any salve? We have a physician in Camelot who..."

"No!" You interrupt, your eyes going wide as you catch yourself. You avert your gaze back to the ground apologetically, remembering your place next to the prince in this game of life.

"No, Your Majesty." You correct yourself. He speaks no more about it, as the night continues with the laughter of the knights and your smiling silence.

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><p>"Remind me again, Merlin, how long were you in Cenred's service?"<p>

The prince watches you carefully as you mount your horse, no doubt concerned for your numerous wounds, wondering if they were on your legs as well. You store his immense concern for you for later use. It may prove useful.

"One year, Sire."

He nods in understanding before mounting and the last of the day's long travels begin. The knights' chatter fills the air as the horses kick up dust, the hours passing by slowly and steadily. The prince continues to badger you throughout the day, repeating the same concerned question every half hour. You assure him that you are all right, magic itching to obliterate the annoyance.

He asks about your health one final time, before your eyes catch sight of Camelot on the horizon, her castle standing proud over her land. Her castle, soon to be your master's...

Then your eyesight is suddenly blocked by a waterskin container, you eye the prince in annoyance.

"You haven't drank anything all day, and with those wounds..."

"I'm fine, Your Majesty," you interrupt. This man was become more than just a bother. You gleefully await the moment you can sink a dagger into his heart.

"Merlin, I have seen more battles and bloodied bodies than you can possibly imagine," he begins. You doubt he has seen, or inflicted, more than your hands have, but you allow him to continue for the sake of peasantry.

He holds the waterskin out to you again, his horse kicking slightly in impatience to mimic your own. "Now, are you going to defy the order of a prince?"

Your eyes lock, before yours dart away, hands grabbing the skin from the royal warrior's hand. "Thank you, Sire," you say, before pressing the container to your lips. The water is cool, fresh from a nearby spring. Indeed, you hadn't realized how thirsty you were, greedily drinking down the contents till nothing remains. You wipe your mouth on your sleeve, smiling, handing the container back to the prince.

You refocus on the castle, kicking the horse ahead, mind preparing to scan and map the inside of the town once you ...

Fuzzy. Everything is fuzzy.

Your thoughts become clouded, unclear, as you hold your hands to your temples. You were thinking something about Camelot, and then…

The world is in disarray, blinking in and out and you barely register your body fall off the horse and the pain as you hit the dirt.

You blink, slowly, blackness growing from the corners of your vision. Everything is so fuzzy and slow.

Finally, before the world sleeps, you find the Prince kneeling above you. Smiling...

"You're welcome for the water...Emrys!"


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you Bailieboro for the beta!(I've decided not to change the ending grammar.)

Due to ff causing me problems with messaging, I will try to respond to reviews here instead when I can. If you do not wish to see them, simply move down to read the story. Thank you. :)

Aubrey-Sky-Blue: Sorry, can't say just yet! (as he doesn't know either. Author lost the next few chapters somewhere in his room and needs to rewrite them. Also must become more organized.)

dianaj2w: I will update as soon as I can. :)

Un-ended tales: Yes, your questions must have their answers...once I find them again!

MediEvil Ways: Hmm...hurt/hurt sounds nice. *rubs hands together evilly* yes, very nice indeed! Thank you for the compliments! As to your review you left on "For Your Life," it was the first fic where I tried to write more literal rather than what Nyxelestia calls "flowery" writing. It was also one of my first stories where I had written in third person about a year ago. My first story was written in second person, like this one. I don't plan on writing too many more in the style of "for your life." :)

fairy goatmother: No problem, thank you for being so loyal in your reading! I hope my writing can stay entertaining!

Also, to more backstory you shall have!

Do you all prefer shorter but more frequent updates, or longer updates with longer waiting periods?

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_The laughing court surrounds you, your child-sized hands grasping your mother's skirt. Her soft hand is in your hair, petting you as she tries to soothe the tears, she somehow knows are building. Mothers are strange like that. Your father is there as well, but bound by thick chains. He coughs up blood, as the King smiles from his throne._

_Iron. Your father is buried in iron, the heavy weight sinking him to his knees, to the floor. It almost resembles a coffin made of chains._

_You were always warned about iron, that strange, magnetic metallic element which can render the most powerful sorcerer useless, within minutes. Bronze could weaken a magic-user, if worn, but iron was a death sentence. Once it makes contact with a mage's skin, it will instantly lock the magic within the sorcerer. That was why warrior mages never wore anything more than simple clothing or leather into battle, and covered themselves with multiple layers of clothing and cloaks. A strong grip from an iron-clad enemy would be a death sentence._

_Laughter from the court fills the air like a chorus, ridiculing the once all-powerful Dragonlord now a helpless, weak man, an infant, even, as he can no longer stand._

_"Do you finally submit to me, Balinor?" The man, you assume is the King, smiles, before his features twist and turn into something ugly._

_Your father spits out, "Never!"_

_Sitting at the right-hand of his father, young Cenred's eyes find and lock onto you, your mother and the guards surrounding you. He tugs at his father's sleeve, pointing towards you. The King holding your father captive, gives the head knight next to your mother an inquiring look._

_"Lord Balinor's wife and child, your majesty. We found them occupying the same cave where we found the Dragonlord." The knight replies._

_The royal's old eyes study your mother, before instantly locking onto you. You grip your mother's skirt tighter._

_A smile spreads on his face from ear to ear, "I didn't know you had a son, Balinor!" The King practically sings, heavy footsteps echoing as he leaves the throne and approaches you. You feel your mother's hands wrap around you, before she is snatched by a guard and moved a few steps away._

_The King kneels in front of you, large rough hands grabbing your chin and turning your head from side to side. _

_His smile never leaves his royal features._

_You see your father stiffen at the next words addressed to him, "Your first-born?"_

_Silence reigns as the King's eyes, old grey and cruel, never leave your face. Neither does the smile, as it broaden impossibly wider, as if he had just found a long-lost treasure, before he is interrupted by a sudden downpour of rain._

…Rain?

A splash of cold water pulls you from the dream, and you blink back, shaking your head, eyes unfocused as the world begins to slide back to reality. You blink several times as the droplets of water slide down your eyelashes. Once the haze fades, you find the Prince holding an empty water-pail, sitting in a chair next to you.

A quick pull of your arms, finds your hands locked behind you...tied together...in iron manacles.

Your heart almost stops beating.

The realization sinks into the pit of your stomach, before boiling and bubbling into anxiety. You reach out for your magic, searching every fiber of your being to find it dormant and unworkable, blissfully sleeping while you are left helpless and bound in a cell.

"...like them?" he pauses, "I made sure to have them fitted for you," the prince begins, before kicking aside the pail and slouching back into the chair. You glare up at him, from the straw-covered floor.

"Why were you sent to Camelot, Emrys?"

An annoyed sigh escapes him, when you refuse to answer.

The chair scrapes as he stands, his rich boots click against the stone floor as he approaches you. You take deep breaths as he nears, inhaling, to calm the anxiety and to refocus. You need to find a way out of here, fear and anxiety only muddle and cloud the mind while leaving you more defenseless should there be an attack.

He crouches next to you, his lips smiling as if mocking you, his face so close your noses almost touch.

One more deep breath, helps you steady the anxiety which is rising due to this invasion of personal space.

"Why are you in Camelot, Emrys?" he repeats, more playfully while keeping the words sharp and commanding.

"…Who's Emrys?"

Arthur huffs, lips tugging into a wider smile. Slowly, he reaches to the small sheath at his side, pulling out a dagger. Its elaborately decorated handle reflects the small amount of light from the torches as the Prince twirls-

_-the handsome__ weapon as he flicks it, holding it in the appropriate position to strike an exposed chest._

Your mind plays tricks as you remember.

_"Then... What use is there in keeping you alive?"__ Prince Cenred_ _considers_-

You shiver, pulling yourself out of the old memory. Slowly, you watch as the black-haired prince holding a dagger to your head, melds into a blond-haired prince whose blue eyes study the small blade, before darting back to yours.

The iron is cold as he places the tip of the weapon under your chin.

"I will have you know, Emrys, I have been trained to kill since birth."

You smile.

"Strange," you clear your throat, cautious of the blade as you reply. "So have I."


End file.
